The Unknown Soldier
by Oroku Saki
Summary: After witnessing an unfortunate scene involving a Foot ninja, Michelangelo begins to question the mysteries surrounding his enemies and his own involvement with their lives. One shot.


Disclaimer – I do not own any characters.

Fanfic Notes – This fic is set in the Fox Box Cartoon universe, written from Michelangelo's point of view. It deals heavily with the topic of suicide, so if you are currently grieving or are otherwise sensitive to this subject, then this probably isn't the best thing to read right now. One Shot. Currently rated T, however I am considering rating this M due to the content and description. Please advise me if you believe I should make the rating higher.

**The Unknown Soldier**

There's one night that I will always wonder about. It occurred years ago, back when I was the humble age of fifteen, and yet I still sometimes sit in my room and try to wrap my head around what might have happened. It was back in the days where the Foot was at its strongest; maintaining their stronghold of New York City, under the rule of the unscrupulous yet cunning leader, the Shredder. Back then we didn't even know that Shredder was an Utrom, and while that fact boggled our minds, it was just an everyday occurrence that captured my imagination for years to come.

After fighting the Foot so many times over the years, I can't even remember now as to why, on this particular night, we were infiltrating their headquarters. I have a feeling that we were trying to collect information on the Shredder's activities. Well, whatever we were doing, it didn't take long till Raphael blew our cover. He never could keep his sai at bay. My brothers and I had to evacuate by running down the fire escape to the lower floors. Eventually we had to peel off as Foot soldiers were climbing upwards, blocking the pathway down the steps. We ended up on level two; a simple office area which served as part of the false front Oroku Saki had set up to divert attention away from his more unethical and questionable studies.

It was also the source of his income. Donatello had discovered a while ago that Shredder had made his millions playing the stock market, and having his staff invent weapons of interest before selling them to the United States Government. Naturally, he kept the most state of the art weapons and vehicles to himself, unbeknownst to the general public. So while not playing a direct role, these humble offices were the place where his finances were kept in check and where the Shredder's corporate phone calls were made. Inspectors must have always just seen the lower few floors, or Oroku Saki's personal office right at the top of the skyscraper, because, surprisingly, no official or visitor ever questioned what occurred on the higher levels.

The battle was fairly standard, as far as the Foot went. Raphael and Donatello tried to find the elevators, only to fight off the loads of enemies that had used them to travel down from the higher floors. Meanwhile Leonardo and I tried to hold off the Foot that were still streaming in after following us from the fire escape. We leapt over desks, throwing keyboards and monitors in an attempt to knock down two enemies at once. Soon the numbers thinned, but as always, my brothers and I never allowed ourselves to believe that the battle was over. It wasn't. I was surprised when the Shredder himself exited from the elevator, quickly knocking Donny and Raph away from his path. Usually he sent more lackeys, but it seemed this time he didn't want to fool around. After all, we had trashed his offices.

It quickly became clear to us that we needed another exit. Helping our fallen brothers to their feet, we headed down the nearest corridor and entered the enclosed room at the end. It was a large office, with what would have been a nice view of downtown New York in the daytime. Yet that wasn't what made the room memorable for the rest of my life. A person had died in that office.

Our eyes didn't leave the scene before us. A body, dressed in the Foot's uniform, hung from one of the pipes that fed the sprinkler system. Some water had leaked out - obviously from the strain the weight of the body had placed on the piping - which pattered onto the soaked carpet. I often wonder how old he was. He seemed young, maybe in his older teen years. His black mask was off, causing me to stare at his ruffled, dark blonde hair. The noose around his neck was so tight that the thick rope had bit into his tender skin, leaving heavy bruises and small cuts.

My mouth was completely agape as the boy just swung. The water leaking from the ceiling spurted onto his lifeless, open-eyed face, dribbled down underneath his black shirt and pants, only to reemerge at the bottom, dripping off his dark, weightless shoes. His face frozen, mouth straight, as though he was indifferent to death. Worst of all was the noise. Just the soft creaking of the rope as the body swayed slightly from side to side.

Leonardo and Donatello had both sprung back out of shock at the sight of the dead boy, and while they too couldn't peer away, they both knew that we all had to keep moving. So we edged to the other side of the room, as though an impenetrable radius had surrounded the lifeless Foot member; backs to the wall, our eyes never leaving. It was just so surreal. I had seen the act dramatized countless times in movies; a crescendo of music; a shrill scream from the female witness. And yet while I had seen imitations of it many times over, none of them could adequately capture the sheer stillness of the room in comparison to the tiny swings of the feet. I was half-anticipating the boy to wake up; to suddenly twitch and clutch at the rope tightened around his neck. But that never happened. Just the straining groans from the rope – nothing more.

Our eyes finally left the saddening sight when the Shredder finally followed us into the room. Even though it seemed to me like an hour had passed within the presence of the isolated, hanging boy, in reality it must have only been a few moments, since our enemies were only seconds behind us. What surprised me the most was to see the Shredder also stop to stare at the sight. I only wish he wasn't wearing his full-body armor right then. I always wanted to know what he felt. If he was remorseful, disheartened, or even apathetic. I didn't even know if the villain recognized his employee.

I don't know why it was so important to me. Why I had to understand what was going through Shredder's cold mind, as he blankly stared at the suspended figure from behind his metallic mask. It made no difference to the outcome, and yet it made all the difference as to the reasons. Did the boy believe that the Shredder was worth dying for? That working for this alien - this horrible, unforgiving creature - was the epitome of his life? Did the Shredder even respect that the boy had lived his final moments in his constrictive skyscraper?

More Foot ninjas piled into the office, only to falter out of shock just like we had done. A moment passed, then a second. We stared each other down. The only obstacle between our enemies and us was the eerily limp boy. I looked towards Leo for direction, only to find an uncertain expression prominently carved into his face. He didn't want to fight in here, and considering that the Foot hadn't moved either, I could only assume that they felt the same way. Yet Shredder just continued to glare at us with his artificial withering gaze. Did he also feel awkward? Or was he simply waiting for us to make the first move?

I subconsciously took a few steps back. My brothers quickly did the same. It didn't feel right. It just seemed disrespectful and tasteless to battle it out when such a young life had already been lost in such a tragic way. I didn't know the boy, but I wanted him to be left in peace. No doubt some of the Foot in front of us may have known this individual on a personal level. If only I could've seen their faces, then maybe I could have gained some peace of mind myself over the years.

Being the quick-thinking turtle he is, Donatello instantly busted out the office window with a little help from Raph. Seeing us starting to escape must have oiled Shredder's gears again as the intimidating man of metal ordered his followers to charge towards us. We didn't have time to equip ourselves with our suction cup kneepads. We just had to jump out. Luckily we were only dropping from the second floor, and it was even more fortunate that we're durable little reptiles. Landing safely in the street, the Foot simply couldn't follow us. From there it was just as simple as slipping into the nightly abyss.

Raphael was the first to speak about the incident. "Stupid kid. Didn't know he had his whole life ahead of him," I remember him cynically saying. I knew that he was more remorseful at the time; that he felt sorry for the boy. His harsh words were merely just a way to convince himself as to why someone could resort to suicide. In some aspects, Raph was just trying to discover the same thing that I spent the next few years trying to find – a reason, and hopefully, closure. Claiming the boy was foolish was simply his way of putting the issue to rest, and pushing the unforgettable sight towards the dark depths of his mind.

That reasoning could never convince me. I guess I just wanted to understand something that would forever be incomprehensible. That night, as I sat on my bed, legs strewn under the tattered blanket, unable to go to sleep, I tried to imagine what must have possessed the boy in order to commit his final act. Had he planned it? What was going through his mind as he selected the length of rope that would eventually be wrapped around his neck? How could a person so delicately find a suitable spot, stand on a desk and carefully fiddle with knotting and securing the rope? I just couldn't conceive doing it myself. And yet he somehow managed to do it.

Soon I realized that it was pointless questioning 'how'. What was done, was done. Rather I found myself once again asking 'why'. Raph's words dominated my tired, swirling thoughts – that Foot ninja had the rest of his life ahead of him. I couldn't help but compare his situation to my own. What was the future of my life? I would never find love, build up some wealth or a career, or in fact do anything that was considered to be relatively normal. Instead I was destined to hide in the sewers for my remaining years; with my only saving grace being the fact that I had a family. And yet the boy could've had all that and more. Damn – he couldn't have been that much older than me, so why give up so soon? Did he truly detest his own life? Although he might have thought it was horrible, didn't he know just how fortunate he really was?

I eventually fell into a restless slumber. The next day at breakfast, Raphael and Leonardo never spoke about the incident. Don acted the same way, at least until we were alone in the kitchen together. "Are you still thinking about that boy? The one that hung himself?" Donatello quietly asked as he rinsed his cereal bowl underneath the cool, running tap.

"Yeah," I admitted, oddly relieved that I wasn't the only one who was up late deliberating on what we had encountered. "I wonder why he did it?" It was the obvious question to ask.

"Maybe it was because of us," Donny replied, eyes downcast while he slowly dried his bowl with what was now a moist kitchen towel. It was an aspect that I hadn't considered, probably because I didn't want to believe that I could have somehow been involved with this unknown boy's tragic demise.

"Surely not," I denied his words, not wanting to accept his version of events.

"It might have been," Don wasn't so quick to give up. "The Shredder has punished people before for failing. Just look at Stockman... or lack thereof," my brother murmured.

"So that Foot ninja had failed the Shredder for something, and to not face the consequences, he committed suicide?" I reluctantly went along with Donatello's scenario.

"And that something could've been us," Don sadly muttered. "Or maybe he was scared of fighting us, and hung himself out of panic?" he continued to hypothesize.

"I don't think so," I quickly shot down Donatello's answers, as I just didn't want to think about it in that light anymore.

"Guess it just goes to show how little we know our enemies," Don remorsefully muttered. Not saying anything more, he moved away, allowing both of us to ponder over the possibilities in solitude.

Little did I know that his last few words would linger in my mind for the next few years. What did we know about the Foot? We knew that they were a syndicate specializing in using their skills in ninjitsu to commit crimes. We knew that their leader, whom they fiercely protected, was a two-faced, evil business mastermind with links to Feudal Japan. But what did we really know about the people behind those masks? Those everyday soldiers who we fought on a regular basis without as much as a second thought? _Who were they?_

It was about that time when I developed an increased interest in the Foot's activities. I became obsessed with their world. For a few hours every night, I would track some of them down to a decrepit warehouse by the docks, where new, hopeful recruits would begin their training. After a while I began to recognize a few of them by sight. I would observe them from the rooftops, as boys younger than myself, would stroll in from the streets to start a different type of life. Some new members were from the Purple Dragons, as though the street gang was merely a feeder school to the more prestigious ninja clan. I used to wonder what the appeal was; why they felt the need to join the Foot. Did these lost souls have nothing else to do, and resorted to learning ninjitsu to find more meaning in their lives? In that case, were they that much different from us?

Technically the warehouse was a dojo, in that new recruits were trained in the ways of the devious Foot. And yet it was also a club, where members would hang out for hours at a time, chatting about topics that I would never hear. I allowed my imagination to take over; to go on the journey with them as they made new friends, which eventually evolved into their extended family, while they advanced in their physical skill. They were characters who I recognized from week to week, where I could relate to them only to a certain level, but ultimately their world was always out of reach.

Master Splinter grew concerned over the time and mental energy I spent watching them. However Leonardo always had a way of backing me up, saying how observing our enemies was never a bad idea. My family knew the real reason why I did it. They knew my obsession originated from that Foot solider; that boy who will forever hang in my mind. It was only when I started collecting newspaper articles when my brothers finally realized just how desperate I was to discover the truth. I had begun scouring any news items, hoping to find out what that boy's name was. Or if anyone had filed a missing persons report. Or if there was an obituary. Nothing. The boy remained unknown.

A few nights later, I noticed that one of the Foot members that I had been following from week to week was missing. Defined by his dyed, blood red hair when he had his mask off, I never saw him from that day forth at the dojo or at any of the social events. He simply disappeared and became a mystery, just like the boy who had hanged himself. Naturally I never found out what happened to him. I would like to think that he quit, escaped the clutches of the Foot, moved up north, got married and had kids… but I know that that's not the case. Wherever he went, I just hoped he was missed.

It was about that time when Angel began to visit us more frequently. She usually spent her free time with Casey, but since he had started to date April, we became the obvious substitute. She liked me the best, or so I liked to believe. We just had the same interest in entertainment. She and I used to spend our Friday nights, sitting on the couch, watching whatever DVDs we could find in the lair. Most of the time the rest of my family joined us, but there were some nights where the others preferred to do their own thing.

It was on one of those occasions where we were both alone, when I asked her for information on the lifestyles of the Foot. Being once involved with the Purple Dragons, she was my closest link to understanding that world. I knew it was a harsh life. Angel herself had placed a razor blade to her wrist several times back in the days when she was assisting them commit crimes. She thought she could fool us turtles by always covering the scars on her forearms, but Casey had told us the truth. Of course, Angel had now moved on, and her scars were now just a bitter memory from the past.

"Angel?" I started during a lull in the movie.

"Yeah?" She absentmindedly replied. The girl didn't look away from the screen.

"I don't know if you heard about this, but a few months ago, my bros and I found the body of a Foot ninja who had committed suicide." I spoke softly, judging her reaction. She didn't seem surprised at all by the news. "Is that common?" I asked my question. Angel knew I was only asking her because of her previous involvement with those shady gangs.

"I was with the Purple Dragons. The Foot were kinda separate from us," she muttered.

"I know… but was suicide common with the Purple Dragons as well?" I wanted some kind of answer from her.

"Yeah, it was," she admitted, as though she had grown used to the sight.

"Why is that?" I had to ask. I needed things to be resolved.

"I don't know. Different people have different reasons," she mumbled without much thought to her answer.

"Like what?" I kept going, starting to wonder if I'd ever unravel the mystery as to why they had a high suicide rate. Angel either was too focused on the television to hear my question, or she didn't know the answer. "Why did people join the Purple Dragons?" I tried another approach.

"To feel wanted," she said. "People want to be somebody in the world; to make an impact."

"Aren't they somebody to their family and school friends?" I questioned.

"They suck at school, and they think their parents hate them."

"Is that why you joined?" I wondered.

"My reasons seem so stupid to me now," Angel quietly smirked to herself. "But I wanted to be part of something bigger, and the Purple Dragons seemed to accept people like me," she shrugged.

"And you thought they were your family?" I only wanted to understand.

"They were my family because they could relate to me," Angel explained. She paused for a moment, as if she was gathering her thoughts, wanting to supply me with the answer I had longed for. "I wanted to know who I was and where I fitted in. New York is a big place, and if you're not careful, you can lose yourself and become one of the millions. So I joined to do something worthwhile with my time, but I found that I lost part of myself anyway."

I stared at her for a few moments, taking the time to listen to her words. In that moment, she showed maturity beyond her years. It was all the information I could gain from her, as I realized that she had acquired the gift of hindsight, and could no longer adequately describe what possessed those lost teenage souls. Soon I was left with the exact same question once again. So why did they commit suicide? Did the promises of the Foot and Purple Dragons mesmerize them with false ideals? And when they found out that they had been cheated, was the emptiness so great that it wasn't worth living on? What was going through these kids' minds? Was suicide their moment of clarity or insanity?

Donatello, Leonardo and I sometimes discussed the issue, and late at night, we would all come up with our different theories. Eventually my brothers moved on. It couldn't be solved. No matter how many nights we stared at the Foot from afar, we would only ever be the outsiders looking in, nothing more. Whatever these teens were feeling, it was incomprehensible. It was difficult to fight the Foot ever since I had seen that boy hanging from that office ceiling. I knew they were just young adults trying to make a living in this large, demanding world.

Years later, sometimes I still drag out the old newspaper clippings from underneath my bed, and try to get into the heads of my supposed enemies. But that boy will forever be the unknown soldier. I still haven't found an answer – at least not one that I will accept. I fear that it's what I've always known; that his death was ultimately pointless. I wish I could have spoken to him, to understand his mind, but it was his choice to make that impossible. Why did he ever believe that no one would care?

Because I did.


End file.
